1999 First Prize Nonfiction

Confronting The Evil

M. Sandra Babcock

(c) Copyright 1999 by M. Sandra Babcock

This is the story of a first-hand
encounter, of participation in an event that had all the markings of mayhem
that was strategically kept under control only by police presence and citizen
restraint. In retrospect, I was amazed at how quickly one can go from passive
observer to angry activist. Sometimes you just gotta confront the evil.

Sweat trickled down my back as the
morning began its barrage of warmth. The camera strap rubbed against my
neck, irritating the skin. Everything about this day was irritating, humid,
and uncomfortable.

The street was empty as we stepped
onto the gray sidewalk. Businesses were closed in protest and poster symbols
of solidarity - hands clasped in unison - stood triumphantly in window
fronts. Police in riot gear manned every corner, moved through every bush,
strategically positioned themselves on rooftops, barricaded cross-streets,
checked anything big or small enough to conceal a weapon. It was interestingly
Hollywood-like and forever real.

"I don’t like the looks of it." Bill,
my husband, stood next to me. His sunglasses peered into the brilliant blue
sky. Delicious cool-whip clouds suspended above as he eyed the rooftop
officers.

"Damn it, we shoulda' stayed home."
A slight breeze pushed through his salted hair. "Barber told me to be careful
in the sun with this crew cut." He pulled his hand through the new 'do'
but his gaze remained intent on the riot-clad officers. Sunburn was the
furthest thing from his mind.

"Yeah, well," sarcasm dripped from
my voice as I swung the Minolta around to check the lens, "I doubt if there's
anything to worry about getting fried up there at your age."

"It's dangerous," he said, whipping
the sunglasses off and revealing jet black eyes that spoke of fear . . . and
concern. I don’t know what it is, but with Bill around, I always feel safe.
He looks and acts the part of a bodyguard when I drag him and myself into
these odd situations.

"We're fine, for God's sake," I mumbled
while absorbed in checking the camera angle.

"Besides, sometimes you just gotta
meet the evil head on." The words rambled out of my mouth like auto-rewind.

When I read that the Aryan Nations 100
Man March would take place July 18, 1998, in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, those
words immediately sprang from my mouth. It sounded good, but I had said it
so often these past months that the words had lost meaning.

In reality, I was there for personal
gain. After a year of research on the white separatist and militia factions
throughout the United States, I had only broken off a faint tip of the
iceberg. The ideologies, philosophies and belief systems that run rampant
within each group are numerous and difficult to pin down. It is an intricately
woven mesh of offbeat interpretations of Biblical scripture sprinkled with
a fine dusting of rage, hatred, anger and fear, mostly preached by one
person and surrounded by those who will do his bidding. The threads that
bind these diverse groups is their distrust of the United States government,
their belief the government must be stopped, and their hated for Jews and
blacks. I'd read their literature, listened to talk shows, peeked at the
web sites, lived with them in my backyard, now I wanted to see them face
to face.

We moved back down Sherman Avenue
scouting for a location. The street was becoming entrenched with people.
Signs appeared in hands and banners stretched across bodies "No Nazis",
"Flush the Nazi Turd", "Too Great to Hate" blended with the activity. Chants
began with a roar "No way. No way. No Nazi USA!" and ended in a whimper.
We found some shade. A guy in dreadlocks stood next to me. Unity has a
silent way of lifting the differences. We talked and watched the police
drag away a man who refused access to his backpack.

The rhythm of the chants grew louder
and more unified. An elderly couple sat on a window ledge, umbrella perched
above to block the sun. Their bright pastel colors appeared almost angelic
and out of place with all the earthy clothes of tan, black, green, and
blue. The street moved with determination, excitement, nervous energy,
purpose. Fists held high, shouts and signs denounced an evil that had once
existed and now lurked in the shadows once again. The rank and file grew
tense yet no one crossed the flimsy yellow tape used as a barricade. The
old couple smiled.

The agitation of the crowd began
to swell like a wave ready to break. Effulgent red, black, white, and blue
flags swirled as Aryan bodies hurriedly lined up in formation. The fabrics
hung like limp soldiers in the still air, their colors ablaze and contrasted
with the immaculate azure sky and white foam of clouds.

Bill hung above me like a character
from Men in Black. His deep mahogany arms folded across his chest, dark
sunglasses hid all emotion, mouth drawn in a tight line. He scanned the
crowd and the rooftops, then nodded as if giving me permission to continue.

I positioned my camera as the first
flag bearers of the twelve lost tribes of Israel began their march towards us,
their flags cascading through the summer sun.

As the group began moving, so too
did the people along the sidelines. Signs flew high and a surge of bodies
pulsated with the Aryans. A strange dichotomy when witnessing such an expanse
of views so close to ignite pandemonium yet restrained as if to say it
will be not overtake us. It was impossible not to feel exhilarated, disgusted,
angry, intensely a part of what was circulating around you - so connected
and yet so removed.

I was calm when those first bright
splashes of color began to stoically move up Sherman Avenue. I was calm
as the Jeep approached, surrounded by Aryan men in light blue shirts scanning
the crowds for weapons. Butler, in brilliant white shirt, mumbled something
inaudible and with each mumble, the crowd grew more intense in their verbal
assault.Click, click, my shutter responded. My lens hooked onto a marcher carrying
a crimson red and deep blue flag, his shiny black helmet glinted in the scorching
sun and a tiny swastika came sharply into focus, much like the life defining
moment that clutched at my heart.

Something clicked and it wasn't my
shutter. It's strange how things can happen in a split second.

The camera moved slowly, methodically
down my body. I could not stop the reaction that uttered from my lips,
nor the well of anger that balled up in my stomach.

"You son of a bitch!" I shouted,
my voice only a minuscule drop in the sea of verbiage that swirled around
me. My finger pointed like a dagger at Butler, standing serenely in the
Jeep, his guards surrounding him like a prized golden calf. For a brief
interlude, Butler met my gaze only to release it to the clear day above.
The marchers grouped tightly and moved past. I stopped, my mouth agape,
my finger frozen in the hot July sun. I looked at Bill, still towering
above me, surveying the crowd in bodyguard fashion. My reflection beamed
back at me from his sunglasses.

"Did I say that?" I asked, totally
stunned.

His eyebrow curved above the rim
of his glasses, lips pursed, as if he were giving me permission to listen
to his answer.

"Yeah," he replied, never missing
a beat in his surveillance.

I looked up at this man of Spanish
origin, a "Mongrel" in the Aryan world, standing guard over me and realized
the tragedy.

I saw my adult kids, also of Spanish
origin, not to mention Catholic.

I saw Ryan, my nephew, who is part
black and stumbling through racial inequality.

I saw Melinda Seigel, my good buddy
from my New York childhood, who is Jewish.

I saw Annette DeBron, my good buddy
from my California childhood, who is Catholic.

The guy in dreadlocks of unknown
origin, the young "Crow" guy across the street and his girlfriend with
red streaked hair, the black man to my right, the Asian woman a few feet
away, the Native American that passed me moments ago, the snowy white elderly
couple behind me and me, a Catholic white woman.

I saw the Holocaust of all that was most precious
in my life and of those I wave to along the path if this obscure train of thought
takes hold and flourishes. The escalation of Hitler's dogma was no different
and the end results just as devastating.

As I stood among the united American
diversity, the phrase I uttered these past months took on sharp new meaning.
For too long, this community ignored, pretended, forgot, placated - it
was time the Aryan Nations found out just what exactly they are up against.

Finally, and in one voice, this Northwest
community had confronted the evil head on.